


secret excuses for secret mistakes

by blackedouthaze



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, Canon Temporary Character Death, Cheating, F/F, Hurt No Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Memories, Missed Opportunities, Reflection, Reminiscing, Resurrection, Secret Relationship, Weddings, it's jean we know how this works, kinda dreamy/poem-ish in parts, the cheating is minor, watching the person you love get married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28873383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackedouthaze/pseuds/blackedouthaze
Summary: a quick kiss to the lips of a friend is nothing, isn't it?ORwhat jean and ororo almost were, what really was, and the nature of almosts and maybes.
Relationships: Jean Grey & Ororo Munroe, Jean Grey/Ororo Munroe
Kudos: 2





	secret excuses for secret mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> this kind if exists outside of continuity (aka i haven't read a comic in forever and wrote this at 2 am), so you can really place it wherever you want. enjoy!!

A quick kiss to the lips of a friend is nothing, isn't it?

Soft hands, blue nail polish, locks of hair in the way.  
A shock, a jolt  
lightning, or something in her head?  
And turning to make sure the door was shut.

Looking back, eyes meet, wide  
backwards footsteps, door slammed,  
tears on the backs of hands.

Momentarily stuck for what seemed like more than moments,  
red and white rug, hard wood underneath digs into her knees.  
Stays, looks, waits, doesn't bother to mute the tv set.  
Staring at guilty palms.

Feet pounding through the hall, bedroom hinges creaking  
the night was great, movie was short, the end was just so sad.  
Sorry, she couldn't remember the title,  
he didn't mind, books were easier on his eyes anyway.  
What has she done?

Sixteen days, glances avoided  
“Good morning!” “Could you pass the greens?”  
Chipping the bowl with an engagement ring.

After the sixteen days, it was six hundred and sixty four.  
Six hundred and sixty four days counted on calendars.  
Marked next to birthdays, training, parties, missions, funerals.  
Then more missions, classes, missions, training, recon, rescue, “work trips”, training, missions.

The missions and trainings and classes and attacks and kidnappings didn't stop after six hundred and sixty four days.  
Or after six hundred and sixty five.  
It seems the ills of the universe have little regard for miracles.

Alone again, after.  
Understanding without words.  
What could they be, anyway?

Tipsy,  
you know, makes you impulsive, bored, do it all for laughs.  
But Ororo had poured the untouched glasses in the sink,  
she still remembers.

And she still wonders why they need excuses for only themselves.

The days of needing practice have long passed,  
and grown women don't experiment.

Something for schoolgirls, late nights, roommates, maybe.  
But Jean dropped out of metro in ‘78  
and Xavier's college courses don't count.

Just say it for what it is, what it was.  
But what it was is scary,  
what it was is something neither of them would really care to consider.  
Secret excuses for secret mistakes do have a purpose after all.

It doesn't matter anymore,  
it’s not like they could have been any more,  
than best friends.

Best friends is easier.  
Uncomplicated.

Best friends lasts  
it's familiar, less messy, and far easier to explain.

Of course a dear friend will give a hug, take a hand.  
Cry when she’s gone, smile at the wedding,  
mourn four times over, let him sob into her shoulder.

Of course a treasured friend will reminisce.  
Wish she’d been around, or alive, and dote on the dress.  
It's a shame, really, though she always cries at weddings.

Of course two close friends will catch up, compliment, and spend a night in.  
Watch a movie, make sure it has a happy ending, and close the door.

They still close the door.  
Too many closed doors.  
Doors whose hinges have long since rusted.  
Doors that are old and crumbling from lack of use.  
Doors that haven't opened since 1982.

What could they have been, anyway?  
Something, maybe.  
Where do doors to nowhere go?  
Somewhere, perhaps.

But it’s hard to have perspective when you're going on 24.  
It's hard to see past your own .43 carats of diamond when you're young.  
It's hard to spend time looking for ghosts, when there’s so much ahead to do.

Some things are easier not to think about.

And some things are harder to ignore,  
however many lives ago they were,  
all of them passed and gone.

**Author's Note:**

> i really hope you liked this, i know it's a bit incoherent but again, it was 2am and i was thinking about ororojean so!!!! :D


End file.
